


Distraction Needed

by TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Crying in the Shower, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethical Dilemmas, canon defiant pronouns, depression spiralling, suicidal idealization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:22:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive/pseuds/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive
Summary: Rung utilizes his downtime for some much needed self maintenance, only to find he doesn’t like what's been manifesting inside his helm.





	Distraction Needed

**Author's Note:**

> A character study I picked up again in the wee hours of the morning before work, after having declined to go to two separate social events. I then proceeded... to take months to finish writing and editing. But worth it! Hopefully!
> 
> You can find a playlist of the songs I wrote to, here:  
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLomaW_tZYOaYclq0W_UZR6TNDn18s5PgU

The days have been getting rougher, that’s certain. With more and more of the crew signing up for my services, the ship’s overall morale has improved. But ah, it has done quite the opposite for mine. The constant reshuffling of schedules, rapidly decreasing personal time - it’s all been very overwhelming. 

When I signed on, I was promised by my associates that they would do the same. Turns out a higher power had ‘advised’ them all to stay on Cybertron. That a ship like the Lost Light didn’t need a fully staffed psychiatry and psychology unit, that it didn’t need  _ any  _ practitioners on board. 

But no one told me. Not until after the launch. 

Well, here I am. Stationed on a ship full of either patients, or potential patients. The distance from Cybertron too vast to ease my workload with an off-ship Vid-Comms patient system, without ridiculous amounts of lag. Amusing for a moment - not for a paid hour.

Here I am, following my calendar's designated block for self-maintenance.

Here I am, alone in a shower stall, stuck on this ship, and with drastically degrading mental health. 

At least the tiles of the floor are pretty. Blue. Like a spark. 

Why do I want to procrastinate on this? I deserve to have a shower of all things. And yet… 

I turn the knob, and adjust the height, the temperature. I step into the stream, and, it’s nice. Warm, and constant. But it’s not enough. Not enough to stem the stream of negative thoughts whirling around my helm. 

Not minutes before had I passed by the last of the room’s occupants. Well, not entirely passed by. More like knocked aside by a gesturing hand, and an unobservant conversationalist. Like I wasn’t even there.

Do other mechs just not see me on the daily? I’m certainly not invisible with the silver walls of the Lost Light. Definitely not like the days serving aboard the Ark. 

Do they see me and forget that I exist instantaneously, running the risk of accidental bump-ins? Maybe they just see the ship’s only psychiatrist, who, if you look them in the optic they might remind you about your next appointment, or primus-forbid, start asking you personal questions in public. Maybe they will that not to happen, and accidently will me out of existence in the will-powered crossfire. 

But regardless if mechs pretend to, or actually not notice me, most still take the extra measure of  _ seeing  _ me and avoiding eye contact. How is that to make a mech feel? How is one to feel when most mechen aboard do this?

I press my forehead to the washrack’s wall. Tired, that’s how I feel. Tired, and spiraling. 

I’ve been spiraling for some time now. The warning signs from both frame and mind have been plenty. Of course they’ve all been shoved aside into a nice neat little filing system to be dealt with when I have more time. But time is never on my side. No one’s side really. 

And saving something until you have more time - that’s just unrealistic. Time is created when you decide it’s time. 

But having time is… is a scary endeavour. Shoving things to the side of course isn’t the best way to deal with things, but it certainly is easy. 

Sitting down and having a long hard look inwards, especially without help or outside comfort… That’s downright uncomfortable.

Scary indeed. 

But I don’t need to look inward, I can do the opposite. Socializing. Creating a small but nice safety net… of patients. Oh dear, this certainly is a problem. I should make a point to write in to MAPP… [1] if there’s enough members to run it at this point. Maybe I'll just check in when the long-range subspace network is fixed. See how everyone there is holding up. The forums sure are sparse at the moment, but maybe everyone’s just as busy as I. Let’s just hope the war’s habit of finding easy pickings within our ranks hasn’t continued into peace time….

And yet, I can’t keep away from that earlier thought. When  _ was _ the last time I’ve been invited out, by anyone? When was the last time I, aboard this ship, ventured past the corridors of my self proclaimed psychiatry department for the sole purpose of enjoyment and not immediate need? 

When was the last time I had a friend? 

Ah yes, too long. Far too long. 

Of course Swerve has held parties, and movie nights, and one extreme social occasion to the next. But, the invitations have run dry on that one. Lasted a whole month or two. Which, honestly has to be somewhere nestled in the higher end of the top ten longest running kept-inviting-Rung-until-we-realized-they'll-never-stop-being-too-busy list.

Ah, how hypocritical of me to both not want to mingle, and crave the company of others at the same time. How entirely odd and out of character of me to desire a basic cybertronian right.

But maybe I’ve been forgotten. It happens.

I could ask, but how would one even broch the subject? 

_ Hello Swerve, I know I can’t legally consume engex aboard this ship and so rarely have the need to enjoy your establishment, which is lovely by the way, but while you’re actively listening are there any more social occasions coming up? Ones that I could potentially be invited to? Thanks!  _

At least the solvent is nice, and still warm. 

It runs over the helm, past my shoulders, and flowing down into the seams otherwise covered by backpack. In a way, like a functionalist-less warm embrace. 

I’m sure I’d deny myself the time for a social anyways. I’m skipping recharge to perform self maintenance. Which I am currently failing to do. Doing an excellent job at standing however. But alas, standing is something most can do. How silly of me to think I could do something in excellence. How useless. 

Useless. 

My chest tightens at that thought, plating involuntarily clamping down. Back solvent cut off, warm embrace ended. This… somehow makes me feel even more alone. 

I hug myself, but it's not the same.

Maybe my spark can stop aching, and hurry on and burn out. At this rate that’s how it’ll end up. 

But for now? I’m just tired. The kind of constant tiredness that's a key symptom of early spark burnout.

I let out a long vent, pressing my forehead harder into the wall. It's cool, and hurts, and is grounding. 

Too busy to be healthy, too busy to be busy. Just… too busy. 

Would my peers act the same way? Would they buckle under the pressure to comfort everyone? Would they be pained by the strain of being constantly on duty with no one to vent to, or cover shifts with? 

Maybe. Maybe not. 

Maybe after repairs, when I work up the courage to call them I could ask? 

Ah, things will get better eventually. So many experiences in this mental state have shown the truth in that. If only that eventually could be now though, and not later. Time is a villian in that regard. 

I only have another hour till I’m needed elsewhere. I should start with the cleaning, and the scrubbing, the drying, the buffing, the polishing. Maybe a retouch of paint or two somewhere along in there. 

But that's such a long and draining list, and my plating has relaxed again, and the solvent is warm and soothing, and oh dear I want to do none of the above but stand here and enjoy the time to myself. I offline optics and embrace the cruel sort of bliss that only occurs when something is finite and  _ just _ on the cusp of ending.

I don’t want to think of it. I want to think of nothing, preferably. But that’s just not possible right now, so I suppose just letting the mind wander instead is good enough. Enjoy the moment. Ignore everything else and let the processors run. 

Though they've always been on and running, even in recharge - untangling the next day's problems and understanding what happened previous. 

Just like my comms. They've always been on and open to those in need. Or at least, ever since I started handing the number out like rust sticks after my beginning years in practice. Very few solicitors so far, thankfully. 

And I enjoyed the calls. I enjoyed helping patients. I still do!

But at a time, during the height of the war I would get calls from dying patients. 

I’ve gotten flack from soldiers saying how I’ve never fought, so how could I know anything about anything in regards to war? 

But they’ve never had to metaphorically hold the servo of a dying patient, someone you knew from a professional standpoint quite intimately, and be the only mech they could call for help. The only mech who would answer. The only mech to soothe them, tell them everything will be alright, that they are brave and strong and excellent and will not be forgotten. To hear the pain, to hear the remnants of battle around them. To hear them fade out, comms extinguished indefinitely.

To do this again and again as more and more patients find their way into a battle they couldn’t win. To cry one moment alone in my office, and be ready to take another call in the next. To take on another patient in the moment after, to  _ know _ that they too might call you in the peak of their distress. 

On-call for over 5 million years you could say.

You could also say its been depressing seeing the years fly by, and the papers written by my peers dwindle down to almost nothing. That our numbers have dropped off dramatically. That I could've been one of them, a brushed off statistic, during the attack on Kimia. It should’ve been someone else to survive. Surely they wouldn’t complain this much about being tired, about being overworked and underappreciated. 

How can I take time for myself when my patients are depending on me? When my peers back on Cybertron have a larger workload than me, when they would likely consider this time stolen from my patients? 

Oh dear. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to let the mind wander when I’m spiraling. My mind is wounded, and I need to give it room to repair. Need to guide it back into kinder thinking patterns. Just need to lend a little effort. Push a little harder in the right direction.

I rub my face, and remove my glasses. I'm halfway through cleaning them before realizing I'm still in the shower. Solvent overflows their edges. 

I set them down on a shelf with a sigh.

Everyone has a limit. And maybe, maybe after millions of years of patience and caring and understanding, of burning both ends of the metaphorical candle to help others found the Medical Association of Psychiatry and Psychology. To become the founder of analytical psychology. To continuously help expand our understanding of the mind, and to be stupid enough,  _ niave  _ enough to share my research findings with Froid. 

A small part of me knows I need a distraction from these thoughts, but that’s easily smothered away.

Maybe after all that  _ exhaustion,  _ I had to go and survive years of functionalist torture, and then millions of years of war, of being forgotten  _ time _ and  _ time _ again despite everything I’ve given up, after everything I’ve done. Maybe, just maybe,  _ I _ have reached my limit. 

I unclench my fists, and let them fall to the side. 

Self-sacrifice isn’t healthy, nor pretty, and I do deserve a break. I deserve, do I even dare think this, respect. 

No, I deserve a little more than that.

“I deserve to be remembered,” is my voice, shaking and quiet. Spark  _ aching  _ in protest to the statement. But true.

I deserve to be remembered.

No, that doesn’t sit right. How can I deserve anything? I haven’t fought in the war, or repaired physical wounds, or done anything anyone will remember me for. And I, the only outlier, have no inherent intrinsic value. 

But, I have trained to fight, just in case. I have mended wounds of the mind. I deserve.

The ache in my spark flares, and I clutch at it. Will it to stop. Or alternatively, will the wall to give way to the void and allow me to fall into its vastness.

Let me feel nothing. Think nothing. 

I do deserve something, and that is to be forgotten. No one will remember my name or what I’ve done - when I’m gone. All that I’ve accomplished, no matter how groundbreaking or helpful, they’ll never be attributed to me. Oh the Functionalists and my once-friend Froid have taken care of most of that. Done the real heavy lifting of stealing and diminishing my work. Stealing my voice. 

I don’t have a right to anything. I’m scrap. Worth less than the paint chips in the vents. Undeserving of energon. I should save the supply for the others.

I don’t have much time left now to enjoy this spout of self maintenance. 

Tears steam from my optics, and I move to wipe them away before realizing that it just doesn’t matter. Solvent to tears, what’s the difference. And oh dear, I’m wasting solvent just by standing in it. What a disgrace. 

I take a sponge off the shelf and do my best to clean myself. All superficial - no time to go any deeper than that. 

By the time that’s over and done with, I’ve already broken down into sobs. 

I know I can’t leave the washracks like this, and I have a few minutes left. And the blue of the tile floor is so inviting… 

I collapse onto that blue, helm in servos waiting for my body to stop this nonsense. To wait for this emotional outburst to finish.

Broken sobs wrack my frame, and I’m useless to stop them. 

Pedesteps and slamming doors - someone else is here.

I should quiet down. I should. I should be polite and let the other occupant go on about their day peacefully. But I can’t. I can’t stop, and I’m so worthless. Not like any mech would care enough to say something. 

Not that any mech would ever care.

I clutch my knees tighter, hiding my helm and hopefully muffling my useless sounds. If I can even do that right. 

But the banging is back. Pedes stomping closer.

“Who the frag is fraggin’ crying in the washracks?!” I know that voice. Of course I do. 

The stall door slams open - Whirl’s showmanship strength obvious as ever. “Oh.” 

He pauses, silent. Field rapidly fluctuating. I'm glad I'm facing the wall instead of him. I don't want to see him walk away. 

Maybe I’ll just fade away if I stay here long enough. I could be brought in front of the ethics committee for this boundary dilemma. Or worse, a Lost Light tribunal. 

Am I taking advantage of Whirl to gratify my own needs? Am I undermining his treatment goals? Am I  _ threatening _ them? 

Would context clear this dilemma if it was brought up to judge? 

Am I even in a position right now to answer these? 

I won't be able to handle another Fateful Archetype.

“Hey, uh… Eyebrows?” a pang in my spark, “You alright down there?”

Would it hurt this much if he'd simply left? Oh what does it matter, my peers would be working instead of letting their emotions overcome them. 

“Yes,” is all I can choke out, helm still buried. But that's so far removed from the truth. I'm such a horrible mech, lying about my wellbeing.

Whirl shuffles his pedes, field agitated.

"Hey, I'm gunna turn off the solvent ok?" 

"Ok." 

I feel Whirl step closer, and he turns the handle above me. The flow stops and I'm cold again.

A patient is seeing me in this state and it’s affecting him. I shiver. 

I need to slow my vents, slow and steady. Think of my model ships and alI that I can create.

A pede nudges mine. “You gunna, just, stay there then?”

Ah, “No. No, I need to get going.” Deep vents. Smooth out that field. Be the anchor of calm you need in the world. “I have…” a calendar pop-up reminder, “I have paperwork I need to get back to.” I palm away the tears drying on my face. I rub my optics. My helm hurts. 

Whirl crouches down, lowering his helm level to mine. 

I twist my own to look at him. 

His optic is close. Dangerously close perhaps for other mechs. But it's nice. I find comfort in it’s closeness. I can see the mechanisms focusing and unfocusing on me. It’s… nice to be seen. 

"Hey Rung?"

"Yes Whirl?" 

"Let's get you dried off ok?" 

"Ok." 

With his help I stand up. And look for a towel. 

He hands me one. When did he acquire one? After turning off the solvent? 

I accept, and start the process. But this forces me to look at the plating that needs a touch up here, and there. Oh dear so there was a mark left when I bumped into my desk earlier. 

Whirl is quiet. Watchful. But I... appreciate that. I don't feel like talking. 

He must know what he's doing. Has he been in a similar position? Is he caring for me because he struggles with caring for himself? 

The last section to cover is my back, and I struggle to maneuver the towel around my backpack.

Whirl offers a claw, and I look at him quizzically. 

"I can help if you want?" 

Want? I don't want anything. But my back won't get any drier if I don't accept. I could air dry it, but that would just cause it’s own assortment of problems. I should accept.

“Ok.” That’s all I can muster. So stupid. But I’m calm, and all is good. 

I hand over the towel, and turn around for Whirl. 

He starts, and oh my goodness it’s surprising how gentle he is. It’s nice. It’s so nice to be touched again, even if indirectly like now. Basic cybertonian needs. Oh what’s the term? Touch starved. Starved indeed. 

“Must be some paper.” 

“Hm?” It’s hard to bring myself back from feeling so relaxed to understand his meaning.

“Your paperwork. Must be something wicked if it’s got you so down like this.” Oh no, I don’t want to talk about it I can feel my plating clamp up already oh dear - “What, Ultra Magnus critique your sentence structure in the last report thing you probably do?”

“No…” 

“Grammar then. Damn, what a crook ain’t he?”

“No Whirl, nothing to do with Ultra Magnus,” wait. The full understanding of the glyphs just sunk in. I spin on heels and look him straight in the optic, “Ultra Magnus is not a crook. And if he was, it certainly wouldn’t be for his properly written report requirements.” It’d be for the atrocities of war.

Whirl bursts out laughing. 

“Haha! You shoulda seen your face. So serious doc!”

Confusion takes hold, but rolls itself into understanding. "Oh." A joke to ease tensions. A coping method agreeable for both sides. A wonderful distraction.

I stand stunned at Whirl's thoughtfulness. 

“Come on Doc, you don’t have to talk about what’s got ya down, but you sure as the pits can’t stay in here.” A pause. “It’s like, really wet. Kinda gross. Somebody’s not doing their job at cleaning I bet. Oh, and you got that paperwork scrap to handle right?”

“Oh yes, that paperwork… scrap.”

He’s staring at me with that extremely observant optic of his. “Hey uh, you want company back to your office?”

“I…”  _ socialize, _ “Yes, actually that'd be lovely Whirl. Thank you.”

I turn and exit the dark of the stall, and into the bright florescent lighting of the… rest of the washracks. 

My legs buckle. Of course they do.

Whirl catches me, arm supporting under my shoulder. Oh dear, funny how my legs will give out briefly after so much time in one position.

“Sorry, I’m still a little light headed.”

My legs come back into the realm of supporting themselves, and Whirl withdraws his arm.

“Hey doc, you are all fraggn’ good. In the clear.” 

**Author's Note:**

> 1Medical Association of Psychiatry and Psychology [return to text]
> 
> A few notes here:  
* OOC? Naahhhh. You can’t tell me Whirl ain't a big softie deep deep down in his innards, for the right mech. Plus I feel like he’s the kind of mech who would help someone at their lowest when no-one's watching. Totally in character I swear.  
* Then of course when I finished editing this, the Onion retweets their article 'Entire Office Unsure What To Do About Bawling Coworker.' And the answer to that is? Dry ‘em off if they’re so inclined to be wet, and give ‘em company.  
* I've been awake for 21 hours at this point, so if there's any errors please let me know!
> 
> I swear the next fic will be a happy one!


End file.
